


Let Me Be Your Arms

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF!John, Disabled Character, Foot Fetish, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was born without arms, having to fight for independence from a controlling family every step of the way. When he finally managed to break free he had to face facts that the lifestyle he’s always dreamed of having is just outside of his reach… until he talks an ex-soldier out of committing suicide and the man offers to be his arms in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Be Your Arms

I do not read comments. Corrections can be sent [HERE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/?tag=7.+spelling/grammar+corrections). Comments will be ignored and the user banned without warning.

We do not own ANY of these characters, shows, movies, or the companies associated with them. We do not make money off these fics and will not accept offers of funds.

***

 

 

**A/N: Inspired by this fun, quirky, totally awesome woman-[Tisha Unarmed-](http://www.youtube.com/user/tishaunarmed) who I have a totally humiliating (and secret… ssssshhhhhh!) crush on. Please don’t harass her. No, she’s not a reader that I know of. I haven’t bugged her about my stories and I don’t want you to either, please. However, if you’re looking to be inspired and have a good laugh (the nice kind that isn’t at someone’s expense) then watch her videos. She’s truly fantastic.**

 

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, looking anywhere on the tube but at Sherlock himself. He was escorting him home after he’d had a rather nasty row with Sgt Donovan at Scotland Yard. The escort was more to salvage the remnants of their friendship… or whatever it was they had.

“Stop apologizing,” Sherlock replied blandly, “I’ve lived with this my entire life. It isn’t anything new.”

“It isn’t that I think you’re helpless,” Lestrade argued uselessly.

Sherlock snorted, “No, that time I threw you through a door cleared that issue up.”

Sherlock Holmes had been born without arms. From the time he was six he’d decided that it wasn’t going to stop him from attaining his dreams. So he’d convinced his parents to let him learn to cope on his own. They’d smiled sadly and allowed him, but with no intention of ever removing the umbilical cord. Sherlock had tried six forms of martial arts before he’d found [Pencak Silat](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F78Mx6_DaFs). The tumbling/grappling/striking form of martial arts allowed him to adapt to using his legs only. He’d found himself a suitable Master and trained hard until he’d become a Master himself.

 Of course, at the time his dream had been piracy, but his determination had translated well into his adult goals. Sherlock was a private detective now, utilizing his heightened mental faculties to deduce the culprit far faster than the police were capable. Sadly, he was a private detective who couldn’t get a case without his brother’s D.I. boyfriend helping him along. Lestrade didn’t know that Sherlock knew that his brother was schtooping him.

“I’m _really_ sorry, Sherlock.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock turned towards the man with a huff, “ _Stop_. I’m sick of it. I know full well I’m armless. I know full well that people don’t take an armless detective seriously-”

“ _Consulting_ detective,” Lestrade corrected automatically, “You aren’t actually-“

“-And that Scotland Yard will never initiate someone without the proper number of limbs into their ranks. However, what you don’t seem to realize is that _I’m used to it_. I live _every_ day Lestrade. Every. Damn. Day. And I do it without you or my thrice-damned brother helping me do it! I get up, dress myself, make my tea and food, run chemistry experiments, and _solve more cases than you do,_ all without arms! I _manage_. In fact, I more than manage. I _excel_!”

“I know, I really do-“

“No,” Sherlock snapped, standing up angrily, “You don’t. You don’t know because your only handicap is your dim wits! No one can see yours until you open your mouth and _introduce_ them to it!”

“Sherlock, sit down! You’re going to fall!”

“ _I have excellent balance!_ ” Sherlock screamed at him.

The car ground to a halt and Sherlock proved his point by planting his feet and barely swaying. Lestrade huffed in frustration while Sherlock stormed off the car, no one daring to get in his way. He was halfway to Baker Street, walking fast and spoiling for a fight, when his shoulder slammed into someone. Hard. Sherlock staggered to the side, spinning around and opening his mouth to curse the man out.

“Oh my gods, I’m sorry. I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Don’t do it.”

“What?”

“Don’t kill yourself,” Sherlock stated, looking the man over and seeing someone who was hurting _far_ worse than he was.

The man gaped at him, and then squared his shoulders, “Why not?”

“For starters,” Sherlock scoffed, “ _Your_ ailment is psychosomatic, so _you_ don’t have to live with it for the rest of your life.”

Emotions flashed across the man’s face: guilt, horror, anger, self-pity, then settled on stubbornness as the man squared his jaw.

“What makes you think you know all that, hm? You don’t even know my name.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, “I know you’re a soldier recently invalided from someplace hot and sunny, either Afghanistan or Iraq. I know you were a medic there. I know you were shot, but not in the leg you’ve just forgotten to favor… there you go again. See? Psychosomatic. I know your therapist has no idea that you’re suicidal and that you’re planning on ending your life tonight, and that you’re little stroll around London is your way of saying goodbye to the world- possibly because you either don’t have family or aren’t close to them. Favor the latter. I’d initially been planning on telling you where you could insert your oafish feet, but I thought I’d suggest you _heal_ instead since _you_ actually have that option. However if that alternative is so distasteful to you, you’re welcome to do whatever you please with your transport. May I suggest the Thames? It’s far less messy than your service pistol.”

Sherlock spun sharply on his heel, grateful for the bespoke, sleeveless shirts that left no ends to spin around looking ridiculous as he stormed off towards home once more.

“John!” The man shouted.

“No, leave the deductions to the experts!”

“No, I mean _I’m_ John!” The man was hurrying after him, his cane striking the ground sharply, “John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“How did you do that? How could you _possibly_ know all that about me? Did my therapist send you?”

“No. I’ve no idea who she is.”

“Then how do you know she’s a woman?” The man countered, stepping in front of Sherlock and cutting him off.

Sherlock scowled, “I know she’s a woman because you won’t tell her how much you’re hurting. You’ve got some macho bullshit ideas floating around in your head, which is just _typical_ of a soldier by the way. You carry yourself as a soldier- officer, judging by the way you square your shoulders and lift your chin- so that deduction was easy. The doctor part was made clear by the patch you stitched up on the sleeve of your jacket- most people don’t use surgeon’s stitches on _clothes_. You have tan lines, but not above the wrist and you haven’t been abroad for pleasure because you’d be in a better mood if you had. You’re also unlikely to be sporting that sort of an injury from holiday- though injuries occur it’s far more likely that a soldier was shot or otherwise injured in a war zone. You’re injury is clearly psychosomatic because you ignore it when distracted. You’re doing it now.”

“Fine, how did you even know I _had_ a therapist?”

“You’ve a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist,” Sherlock replied harshly.

“Okay, okay, that all… makes sense, but what about my family? How did you know we don’t get on? You said that made you stop, but you’d barely turned to look at me when you said ‘Don’t do it’.”

Sherlock snorted, “Because my family drives me to want to slit my Achilles heel. Call it mutual understanding, if you like.”

The man stared at him for several seconds in shock, and then a grin spread across his face, “That was… brilliant!”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, eyes darting around his face to try and figure out if the man was serious.

“Absolutely brilliant!”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughed, and Sherlock felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Let me… let me treat you to dinner. You know, to apologize for knocking into you.”

Sherlock smirked. He’d knocked into John, but no one ever accused a ‘handicapped’ person of being at fault for walking into them. He paused to slip his shoe off, slip his toe into his jacket pocket, and slip out his pocket watch. Sherlock flipped it open with a press to the fob on the top and checked the time before flicking it shut and slipping it back in his pocket. He managed to hold down the satisfied smile at the gape on John’s face.

“I’m on my way home at the moment, but after I change I wouldn’t mind going out to dinner. I just finished up a case so I’m _starved_.”

“That was… wait, a case?” John asked, following as Sherlock took off at a fast pace.

“I’m a consulting detective, hence the deducing.”

“A consulting detective?”

John followed along, listening intently as Sherlock explained his career and the case he’d just been on.

“So it wasn’t a suicide?”

“No, but I couldn’t get the Yard to _listen_ to me! All it would take was a single trip out to Leeds!” Sherlock huffed in frustration.

“So what’s the problem?” John asked as he limped up the steps to 221B.

“They don’t want me in _danger,_ meaning out of their sight for more than a second, but they aren’t willing to contact another detective force and ask them to look into it!”

Sherlock strode into his bedroom, sat down on the bed, and began stripping off his clothes, starting with his shirt. The hook he used to undo his buttons was attached to a long, padded stick. He gripped it with his toes, long since altered in shape from most people’s toes, and slipped each button out one by one. The other side of the rod had a larger hook, which he balanced between chin and chest and used to undo his trousers.

“So someone is going to get away with murder just because you haven’t got _arms_?” John asked, his tone angry as he replied from the living room.

“Exactly!” Sherlock shouted back.

A few wiggles and shifts let his clothing fall to the floor and he kicked it into his dirty pile before striding to the chest of drawers and tugging it open with one foot. He picked out a fresh shirt and trousers to replace the stained ones from his earlier visit to a crime scene. The problem with having no hands was he often was required to sit in various locations in order to use his feet to manipulate things. It left his clothes filthy. A repeat of his previous process had him dressed and he turned to find that John had been watching him curiously from down the hall. He flushed and stammered an apology when he saw Sherlock notice him.

“I didn’t mean to… it’s just that you left the door open…”

“If I were shy I wouldn’t have,” Sherlock replied with a shrug.

“That’s not… right. Okay. So. Dinner?”

“Angelo’s. It’s not far, so we can walk. I’ll tell you about how I got him off a murder charge…”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock sat  down at Sherlock’s table once Angelo brought him a large, tall chair meant for a bar.

“I usually use regular chairs,” Sherlock explained with a smile, “But my favorite dish here is pasta, and that requires a bit of finesse to eat with your feet if you like twirling it.”

“I have to say, you get on quite well. You live alone?”

“Mostly. My housekeeper lives in the first floor flat. She cleans up, cooks for me, that sort of thing. I could do it myself but… well.”

Sherlock smiled to let him know it was a _choice_ , not a handicap, and John smiled warmly in understanding. Angelo mistaking John as his boyfriend flustered the man, but he wasn’t overly bothered. He blushed and stammered out a denial, but the man moved to fast to hear him. Sherlock smirked and John settled in to talk to him, enjoying more case-related conversation. Their food arrived and Sherlock pulled a bottle of sanitizer from his pocket and rubbed his hands together, balancing by leaning back on the chair. John watched him politely and waited until he was ready to eat as well. Sherlock propped one leg on top of the other as though crossing his legs and captured a fork with his toes. It took him no time at all to twirl the pasta and then he leaned forward to take his first bite of the first meal he’d had in days.

John was watching him with slightly wide eyes, pupils dilated, eating slowly and swallowing repeatedly as though his mouth was dry. A careful study showed signs of arousal, but Sherlock couldn’t be positive without checking his pulse; he’d have to find a way to do that, but so far one hadn’t presented itself. John was eating a similar dish, so for a time only the sound of silverware clinking on flatware echoed in their corner. As the plates emptied, so did the life in John’s eyes and Sherlock was aware of losing a chance that came up very rarely in his life.

“I have a couch,” Sherlock suggested as though continuing a previous conversation.

John blinked, considered his statement, and replied in kind, “Yeah, you do. I saw it. Don’t most people?”

“Not really, no,” Sherlock replied, “The homeless sort usually don’t have couches… sofas… chairs… furniture in general, really.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” John replied conversationally.

“Of course, there are exceptions. There always are.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s also a room for rent upstairs, but I can’t afford to pay for that and you’re down to your last few pounds.”

“Yeah,” John repeated, looking uncomfortable, “How, how, how, how long have you known that…”

“That you’re homeless?”

“Yeah.”

“Since I met you. I had no reason to mention it previously because it didn’t really come to matter. You didn’t smell foul, so I had no complaint about you touching my person. Which of course means you haven’t been out on the streets long, and since you weren’t planning on _staying_ on the streets…”

“Yeah, not for long,” John nodded, eyes devoid of life.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, realizing their conversation had taken a wrong turn. John was contemplating eating the gun in his jacket pocket again.

“You see I often utilize the homeless around my London to assist me, to be my arms if you will. They found me a suitcase that led to the arrest of a serial killer last year. Perhaps you heard about it on the news?”

“He was a cabby, wasn’t he?” John replied, interest peaking once more.

“That’s the one,” Sherlock nodded, “I can tell you all about it later…”

John smiled, but it was the sort of smile one gave another at a funeral, “So I can be your arms?”

“I… hadn’t thought of that,” Sherlock replied, “You  mean long term?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” John repeated, licking his lips and glancing down to where Sherlock was fiddling with his knife and fork with his toes, “I was just thinking for a trip to Leeds to catch that killer.”

“You have a foot fetish.”

John’s eyes jerked back up to his face, “No. No, I’m just… surprised by how dexterous they are. Ahem… Leeds?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Beats a couch.”

“Catching a murderer beats sleeping anywhere at any point in time,” Sherlock agreed, and saw the man’s eyes flash with longing, “Shall we?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock reached across the table and caught John’s wrist with his foot, gripping it tightly. _Pulse=erratic_. John froze, his breathe catching in his throat and his eyes going wide.

“One condition,” Sherlock stated, lowering his voice to a rumble.

“That would be?” John asked, swallowing hard.

“You leave with me right now.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” John replied, looking overwhelmed.

“Very good. You call a cab while I tap the ATM just outside the door.”

“Right. Yes. Okay.”

John stood up, tripped over his cane, didn’t notice, and kept going in a hurry to get to the street and hail a cab. It was the busiest time of day, so John would have a time of it. Sherlock calmly dabbed at the corners of his mouth, cleaned his feet once more, slipped them back into his shoes, stood up, pushed in his chair, called a fairwell to Angelo, and headed out the door and to the ATM two buildings down. He did all this at a comfortable pace, dragging out the time that it would take for the next step to occur. John hailed a cab and jogged back to Sherlock with a grin on his face.

“He says the next train is at…”

“8:15,” Sherlock stated around his mouthful of debit card.

“Right… so, are we going?” John glanced at the cash in Sherlock’s toes, which he was slipping into a pouch he kept strapped to his ankle. He slipped his card back into the same pouch and pulled the zipper shut while John craned his neck to watch. He’d delayed doing this just to have the man’s attention on him when he did so. Sure enough, the man’s eyes widened and he licked his lips again, following every motion of Sherlock’s feet.

“Yes, I think we are… just as soon as Angelo finishes returning your cane.”

“My what?” John asked in alarm, turning around to see the man behind him holding out his cane.

“You forgot this, Dr. Watson,” Angelo grinned, handing it back to him.

“Ah… thanks.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his smirk as John turned back to him.

“You…”

“You needed a bit of distraction, to feel valuable again, and some potential danger and excitement didn’t hurt either.”

John’s face fell, “So we’re not actually going…”

“Oh, yes. Oh yes, we most certainly are,” Sherlock purred, passing John in a hurry and tugging the cab door open, “In you go!”

They chatted along the way, this time John telling his story as to how he’d ended up in this situation.

“A year ago I was invalided home. I spent time in a bedsit here in London, but I couldn’t afford to stay. I went to live with my sister, but she’s got a pretty awful drinking problem so eventually I just had to get out of there. My heart is in London, it always has been, so anywhere I went I just got more and more depressed. Finally I ended up here again, just wandering around and saying goodbye. I got a hotel room, lived it up a bit, bought some good food, some _great_ booze, and managed to find a lovely woman to go home with me a few night back… First time in a while… too long, really…” John shrugged and trailed off, staring out the window.

“Then the money ran out.”

John nodded.

“Then you toured your favorite spots in London to say good bye before heading… where to do yourself in?”

“St Bartholomew’s Hospital. I had an internship there, a lot of good memories. I was going to make it simple and shoot myself in one of the showers. You know, easy to clean up on the tile. I was going to hang a sign so some poor soul didn’t wander in and get a fright.”

John pulled out a piece of paper _(hotel stationary, Travelodges Kings Cross)_ from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal a note ( _fountain pen, family heirloom, still in left breast pocket)_.

**Suicide via headshot in shower area. Call 999. Do not enter without police.  
Dr. John H. Watson, Captian, 5 th Northumberland Fusiliers.**

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Sherlock stated softly.

“Yeah.”

“Yet you’re here.”

John nodded, staring down at his note in Sherlock’s hand, “I guess I just needed someplace else to go.”

They made it to Leeds and Sherlock rented them a hotel room to use as a base, there he spread out a map and went over their plan together. Then they were off to a graveyard where they quietly stalked the gravedigger. The man was completely calm, sure that he’d gotten away with the crime. They followed him back to his home and waited quietly in the bushes across from his home, shivering in the cold. They had a rental car waiting for them, but the man was sure to notice a strange car parked near his suburban home.

John slipped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, startling him as most refused to touch that part of his body at all. Sherlock leaned into him gratefully and they struggled to stay warm together.

“That coat is nice. Bespoke?”

“Yes.”

“All your clothes are?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Movement. John leaning a bit closer and Sherlock scooting in more. Sherlock often found people who were intensely attracted to him: whether due to his fair features, a foot fetish, or the ‘helpless handicapable person’ aspect. He’d had numerous chances to bed many attractive men and women but had always repelled them _instantly_ with his deductions. Except John. John was interested, available, just as damaged as he was in his own way (not that he considered his lack of arms the damaged part of him) and completely fascinated with his _mind_ as well as his body. Sherlock had never wanted someone before, but he wanted _John_.

Just as he was trying to figure out if it was acceptable to kiss someone while staking out a gravedigging murderer’s house, the door opened and the man hurried out and into his car.

“ _Now!_ ” Sherlock hissed, and they hurried around the corner to the car they had rented. 

Sherlock slipped in, not bothering with the buckle, started the car, slipped the gear in place, and hurriedly pulled after the man. He kept a careful distance, ignoring John as he swore and strapped Sherlock into his seat.

“Careful,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sorry, sorry, just trying to make sure you don’t _die_ suddenly on me.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Sherlock muttered, turning to chase after the man.

They ended up in a cabin deep in the woods where they carefully followed, lights off, until they decided it was too dangerous to continue further. Then they followed on foot. Finally they managed to make their way to the cabin, but he didn’t appear to be inside. They moved around the back and saw a light on in the shed.

“There it is,” Sherlock whispered, looking in the window, “The knife! Lestrade couldn’t find one at the scene, but it was outside so he assumed street thugs had picked it up. If we can find even a _small_ trace of blood on it…”

“Don’t we need the police or something?”

“Hm, yes, in order to prosecute I’ll need to bring them in. I don’t suppose you know anyone on the police force in Leeds?”

“Afraid not,” John shrugged.

“We need to find them probably cause,” Sherlock whispered, “In order to get a warrant. Come on.”

They snuck around the back of the shed and Sherlock spent some time studying the ground carefully before straightening with an eager look on his face.

“I’ve got it! This plant!” Sherlock hissed, “It was found on the shoes of the…”

Sherlock was cut off by John grabbing him by his coat and throwing him to the ground while simultaneously whipping out his gun and firing it. The entire thing had happened so smoothly that Sherlock was too busy admiring the strength and poise of the man above him to note the body hitting the ground with a thud only a few feet from where he’d been standing. He squirmed to roll over and stared at the suspected murderer, the blood-speckled knife still loosely clenched in his hand.

“Well,” Sherlock grinned up at John, “I guess I finally found a reason to actually need a pair of arms.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Sherlock smiled, “But I’ll accept your help in rising.”

He could get up on his own, of course, but he wanted John to help him up. Sure enough, the man dropped down to one knee, slid an arm beneath Sherlock, and helped him too his feet as if he were precious. _Not_ as if he were made of glass. No. There was a decided difference to that treatment. John knew, if not from example then from their previous discussion, that Sherlock could protect himself with his martial arts skills.

 _That doesn’t mean I don’t want or need him watching my back,_ Sherlock reminded himself as John pulled him close with a heated look in his eyes, _Everyone needs someone to look out for them… preferably someone who doesn’t treat them as if they’re still six._

“You sure you’re alright?” John asked, more to excuse his closeness than because he was worried.

“I know how to _fall_ John,” Sherlock scolded lightly.

“Yes, of course you do. Now what?”

“We’ll have to call the police. Lestrade knew I suspected him, there’s no way we could hide this.”

“Shit, you’d be a suspect. Okay. Lemme call emergency…”

“No need. I’ll call Lestrade directly. He’ll throw his weight around for me, or get someone else to if necessary.”

Sherlock shimmied his phone out, placed it on the ground, unlocked it, and quickly texted Lestrade.

“Texting is easier than calling,” Sherlock explained.

“With those super feet, I bet it is,” John replied, shifting from foot to foot.

“Self defense,” Sherlock stated, “You’ll get off easily. Especially with me as a witness. I’ve got quite the reputation at the Yard.”

“Yeah. Right. Good.”

“Then we can go back to the hotel room and take care of that for you.”

“Take care of what?”

“Your erection.”

XXXXXXXXXX

It took _far_ too long to settle things where John’s innocence was concerned. In fact, it took the rest of the night. By the time they staggered into the hotel once more they were both exhausted.

“Sleep first. Sex later,” Sherlock suggested, collapsing face-first on the bed.

“Yeah, that works,” John agreed, collapsing beside him.

They were snoring in minutes.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock woke up with arms wrapped around him, a situation he was entirely unfamiliar with. He was also unfamiliar with the hard shaft pressed against his bottom. John was wrapped tightly around him, whining in his sleep and rolling his hips lazily against Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock shifted his hips as well, bracing a foot to give himself the leverage to rock back against John. The arms around him tightened, a growl crawling out of the man’s lips as he pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck. The stubble scratched and Sherlock hissed, surprised at the heat and intimacy of laying in bed with someone. Sherlock was soon panting, his own cock hard between his thighs as he rocked back and forth, rubbing himself against the mattress. A whine tore from his throat as his need built, and it woke John with a startled gasp.

“Gods!” John breathed, hands shifting to stroke across Sherlock’s torso, “How are you doing this to me?”

“To you?” Sherlock managed as his bollocks did their best to draw up and give him the release he so sorely needed, “You’re the one accosting me in my sleep.”

John drew back so quickly that Sherlock lay there for a second in confusion before twisting about to turn over. The man looked horrified.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I thought… I misunderstood…”

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock replied, smirking a bit, “I didn’t mean ‘accosting’ in a negative way. I rather liked it, though I _could_ use a ‘hand’ here.”

John grinned and crawled back into the bed, then hesitated a split second before his lips touched Sherlock’s. Sherlock lifted himself up to cross the distance and caught a quick kiss before gravity tugged him back down.

“Mmm, my first kiss. Lovely. Though I _would_ enjoy some reciprocation.”

“I was just thinking that… wait. Your _first_?”

“I assume parents don’t count,” Sherlock laughed, “Is it such a shock? You’ve heard me when I’m deducing. People tend to find my mouth… unpleasant.”

“Not me,” John replied, leaning down to kiss him warmly.

Their lips moved lazily for a moment, tongues slowly easing in to explore bitter tasting mouths. Sherlock worried he’d be pushed away, but the man didn’t seem to care. Neither did Sherlock. John slid lower, mouthing along his neck and collar until Sherlock wondered when it would stop feeling so damn _good_.

Then it did, because the man sat back up again, looking flustered and with anxiety.

“You have questions,” Sherlock stated.

“Yeah,” John hesitated.

“I won’t break,” Sherlock snapped irritably, “I thought I’d proven that to you. I told you about my skills in martial arts. Should I demonstrate them?”

John’s eyes flashed with desire and Sherlock felt his cock twitch at the same tiem something snapped into place in his mind.

“Oh. Oh, that _isn’t_ the problem. You’re _attracted_ to my handicap.”

“Not, really. Not exactly. Well mostly not. And it’s _not_ a handicap. You’ve made that part _very_ clear. Okay, maybe a bit attracted to the fact you’re so damn handi _capable_ despite not having arms. Does that make me a _really_ terrible person? Or just an _average_ terrible person?”

Sherlock smirked slid a leg up John’s body and wrapped it around his waist. He opened his mouth and drew a breath as though to speak… and threw John to the ground.

“HOLY FUCK!” John gasped, scrabbling to his feet, “I didn’t even see that bloody coming!”

“Hurt?”

“Bruised,” John shrugged it off, “That was _amazing_!”

“Want another demonstration?” Sherlock asked, preening under the attention and stretching like a cat. He couldn’t believe the rush he got from the way John looked at him.

“Yeah, I…” John hesitated again, but his cock was still interested so Sherlock nodded for him to continue, “I’d like to see you do something specific, but…”

“But you think it’s something you shouldn’t ask me. Something that will offend me.”

“Possibly,” John replied softly, “I don’t want to chase you off. I’d like to touch you, bring you pleasure until your pretty eyes roll back in your head, but…”

“You want more than that,” Sherlock replied, “And I don’t think we’re talking about a ring here. Go on.”

 “I want to see how you…” John paused and licked his lips nervously, “I want to see how you pleasure yourself.”

Sherlock puffed out a breath, “Dull. I want to get off with _you_ , not the bed or my foot.”

John looked ready to come in that very instant, “Your feet?”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, “It’s awkward, but I can manage.”

John licked his lips and breathed heavily, “Look. I won’t leave you to finish like that. I’ll… suck you off or… hell, anything you want.”

“ _After_ I’ve stroked myself with my feet? Have you ever indulged in this foot fetish of yours? It seems rather foul to me. I _walk_ on these, you know.”

“I… I haven’t got a foot fetish I just… you’re so incredible… look, why don’t we shower first? Or I could wash your feet? Maybe rub them a bit? I bet they’re sore.”

Sherlock smiled and sat up, hanging his feet over the edge, “That would be acceptable.”

John grinned and bolted for the bathroom to find something to wash Sherlock’s feet with. He came back with the ice bucket filled with warm, soapy water, and knelt eagerly at Sherlock’s feet.

“You look good like that,” Sherlock purred, “I could come to enjoy this.”

“You should,” John whispered, glancing up at him, “You do so much good. You’ve done so much good for me in such a short time. You deserve to be pampered.”

“Pampered?” Sherlock laughed, “I’m glad you didn’t use an unfortunate phrase like ‘taken care of’ or ‘looked after’.”

“I’d do that too, but you don’t need it so…” John’s eyes dropped and he focused on scrubbing Sherlock’s heavily calloused feet.

_Look at him living moment by moment. He’s not even questioning his sexuality. He’s just eager to enjoy this before we head back to London and he eats his gun. Well. I’ll have to distract him for a bit longer._

“Do you see how the big toe’s bone structure is altered from your own?” Sherlock asked conversationally.

“Yes,” John nodded, “From use. They’ve turned almost into hands.”

“I refer to them as such fairly often. The typical turn of phrase. Hand me this, hand me that, give me a hand.”

“Oh, I’ll give you _more_ than a hand,” John smirked and ran his tongue up Sherlock’s cock from base to tip. His flagging erection began to gain mass at a surprising rate, “Can’t have you losing interest.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his head fall back as pleasure curled his toes against John’s stroking hands. The man’s lips wrapped around the head of his cock and suckled lightly, his tongue flicking against the slit.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, “That’s…”

John’s mouth popped off and he leaned back to fetch a towel. He lifted each foot and dried them off before gently laying them flat on the floor to either side of the bucket. He massaged Sherlock’s calves, a process that had him moaning enthusiastically.

“I think I like that more than your mouth on my penis.”

John snorted and took a more studious effort to it, lapping at his cock whenever it decided to wilt a bit. Sherlock was quickly left panting in longing, arching his back and striving to get more contact on his cock.

“Uh, uh, uh,” John teased, “I’m enjoying massaging you, but I still want to see your contortionist act.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Sorry, was that insensitive?”

“Stop worrying about insulting me,” Sherlock scoffed, “I assure you, I’ve heard far worse than you’ll ever utter.”

“Not on my watch, you won’t,” John growled, “I’ll put them in their place.”

“Mmm, another thing I’m capable of without your help. However… I won’t lie about enjoying your… presence,” Sherlock admitted with a suggestive smirk. John smiled up at him and Sherlock smiled down between his legs, “Shall I give you that demonstration now?”

“Yeah,” John panted.

Sherlock shifted back on the bed and started arranging pillows. It was easiest if he was semi-reclined to do this, but even then the strain on his stomach wouldn’t allow him to climax. Normally, when he couldn’t ignore his biology any longer, he would start off stroking himself with his foot and then roll over and rut against a pillow to bring himself off. He hated the effort, so he rarely indulged and the idea of letting someone who was less than worthy in his bed was repulsive.

John was worthy.

John was more than worthy.

Sherlock saw something in his eyes that he’d never seen in another. Something that let him push aside what might have been a humiliating display in front of another human being and see it as a sultry seduction. He propped up one leg, crossed the other over it, and stroked the bottom of his cock with his toes curled to give him a slight grip. He ran his foot from base to tip, tugging the foreskin up over the head, sighing as the pleasure built in his abdomen.

John was standing by the bedside, one arm wrapped around himself, the other perched on it, his hand covering his mouth as though to stop him from moaning. His eyes were wide, his face flushed, the picture of someone trying to contain himself. It drove Sherlock wild and he had to slow his strokes, not certain that his position _would_ stop him from climaxing. John’s eyes rose from Sherlock’s groin to his face and those blown pupils danced as he took in Sherlock’s expression. He lowered his hand, licked his lips, and crawled slowly onto the bed.

“Look at you coming undone. All that strength and poise, the way you hold yourself. That posh voice, with those suave words, and that fuck-me voice.”

Sherlock shivered, “Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Fuck me?” Sherlock asked, giving him a half smile.

“I’d love _nothing_ more,” John panted, “I have condoms, but do we have lube?”

“There’s lotion.”

“Just lotion? I’m not worried for me,” John smiled, shaking his head, “I won’t live long enough to regret tonight, but I won’t risk hurting you. I’d rather you did me.”

“Well then,” Sherlock laughed, “You’ll be unfulfilled. I’m inexperienced. I’ll go off like  gun.”

 “Good,” John breathed, “I can’t wait to have you inside me.”

“Without me getting the chance to have you back? That’s a bit selfish, don’t you think?” Sherlock replied, foot still slowly stroking himself, “I play the violin. Sometimes I don’t talk for days. That won’t bother you, will it?”

“No,” John replied, with a soft smile, “No that’s fine. So are the body parts in your fridge and the chemistry set on the table.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, “Of course they are. You’re a doctor and a soldier, why would that bother you?”

John laughed, then leaned in and captured Sherlock’s lips in a kiss, his torso stopping Sherlock from continuing to pleasure himself. Sherlock groaned against his lips, aching for friction. John unwound his limbs and tugged him down the bed so he was flat on his back before capturing his cock in his mouth and swallowing it down. He gagged, of course, but Sherlock was too busy being blissed out to care. A strong hand stilled his hips when he tried to thrust up and another wrapped around the base of his cock. John’s head bobbed up and down on his cock, sucking and lapping at him as if his life depended on it.

In a way, it did.

“Jooooohn,” Sherlock moaned, “C-close.”

John popped off and snatched up the lotion while Sherlock took a few deep breaths to steady himself. He watched as John fingered himself open, looking uncomfortable from time to time. Finally he seemed satisified that he was stretched out properly so he wiped his hands off and grabbed the bottle again. John reached out to stroke the lotion over Sherlock’s cock after getting a nod from him.

“What position?” John asked with an eager grin.

Sherlock snorted, “I’m a virgin. You pick.”

“Umm… would you let me straddle you? I’ve never done anal either, so I wouldn’t mind being able to control how fast we went.”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock nodded.

Sherlock adjusted his position on the bed a bit, arching his back and stretching to catch John’s eye. It worked. The man was practically drooling over him. Finally he pounced on him and took his cock in hand, slowly sliding down his member. John whimpered while Sherlock stared at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of another person in mute shock.

“Ohhhh,” Sherlock breathed.

It wasn’t normal for Sherlock. Pleasure came at a great cost for him. Either through cases or by struggling until he was able to get off on his own. To feel it wrapped around his member with no effort on his own was almost immoral. He felt like he _had_ to move. He had a frantic urge to get up and run, but that was completely illogical because he wanted this brilliant sensation to continue _forever._

“J-John,” Sherlock gasped, “I can’t do this.”

John stilled, frowned, slid off of him, and settled down beside him, “That’s okay…”

“Lie down,” Sherlock replied, scrambling up, “On your back, I need to do this.”

“Oh!” John replied, “Right, brilliant.”

“Brilliant doesn’t begin to describe this,” Sherlock growled.

It was awkward, but he slid up the man’s body and pressed himself between John’s spread legs. John helped guide him to his entrance and then simply stroked his hands along the man’s sides. He was used to using his chin to guide things, so he did so now, pressing against John’s shoulder so he could press inside of him. His legs did most of the work, and John seemed to love that based on the way he hooked his legs around Sherlock’s and groped his flexing ass and lower back.

“Oh gods,” John moaned.

“Bad?” Sherlock gasped.

“Okay,” John gasped, “Good and getting better. Prostate.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock moaned, speeding up as the pleasure built far to fast for him to control.

John moaned again and Sherlock curled his spine and came hard inside of the man, pleasure washing out in waves until he screamed into John’s shoulder. He shook afterwards, overwhelmed and unable to do more than pant. John stroked his hands along Sherlock’s body for a moment, his cock trapped and throbbing between them, until he couldn’t take it any more.

“Sherlock… fuck…” John growled.

“Mmm, roll me over,” Sherlock replied lazily.

The man complied quickly, Sherlock’s cock slipping free. He growled something along the lines of ‘ew gross’ but was apparently undeterred by whatever had bothered him. A quick smear of lotion along his cock slicked him up. He grasped Sherlock’s body, straddled one leg, wrapped his arms beneath Sherlock to grip his shoulders from behind, and rubbed himself frantically against Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock wrapped his other leg around John, using his flexibility to his advantage to drape it around his waist to hold him tenderly.

“Oh, gods, yes!” John cried out, and came hard across his leg and hip.

They both stilled, John panting while Sherlock basked in the testosterone and oxytocin release. John was stroking along his body again, leaning against him heavily as he caught his breath.

 “You really don’t mind them. Do you find them attractive?”

“The nubs? Your shoulders? Whatever they’re called?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied with a half-shrug.

“I don’t know if I find them attractive, but they’re a part of you. They don’t bother me. It’s really not a fetish, I swear. I’m not perverted.”

Sherlock snorted, “Sexual attraction to a specific _anything_ isn’t a problem so long as someone isn’t harmed. Your attraction to me is fascinating.”

“Yeah, interesting,” John laughed, “I’ve saved your life, killed for you, and postponed my suicide for you; all after knowing you for 24 hours. It’s like you’re a drug.”

“Mmm, no. I’ve done drugs before. They’re far less trouble than I am.”

John laughed, “Well, I hope you’re not doing anything like that anymore.”

“Nope. Clean for four years now. Besides,” Sherlock smiled, “I’ve got a new drug.”

John smiled back and they kissed lazily for a moment.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John headed out to the car to warm it up. It had snowed overnight and Sherlock was cranky after their post-coital nap. He sat down, turned it on, and adjusted the settings.

Someone opened the other door and slid into the seat.

John looked up in surprise and stared at the man in the sharp coat for a moment.

“Ummm, I think you may have gotten in the wrong car.”

“Oh, I don’t think so Dr. Watson,” The man replied, his accent sophisticated and his glance towards John one of dismissal, “We need to discuss the man you spent the night with last night.”

“Do we?”

“Yes.”

“If you or anyone has hurt him…”

“Oh, that’s interesting. You only left him three minutes and twenty seconds ago. Should we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“Everything that has to do with Sherlock Holmes is my business,” The man all but growled.

“Who the _hell_ are you?” John demanded.

“His brother,” The man replied, “And the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. I won’t have you risking his life to feed your danger addiction. You’ll stay away from Sherlock or I’ll…”

“Fuck off.”

“I beg your pardon!” The man turned to face him in disgust, “I am…”

“The reason he thinks of himself as damaged,” John snapped back, “He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and when he can’t I’ll have his back.”

“I’m prepared to compensate you _quite_ handsomely.”

“Not interested.”

“I haven’t named a figure.”

“Still not interested.”

“You’re awfully attached awfully fast. That doesn’t seem to be your usual pattern.”

“Sherlock Holmes isn’t your usual man,” John opened his car door and slipped out, pausing to lean in again for a last word, “Don’t be here when I come back.”

John shut the door and headed upstairs once more. He collected his new ‘flatmate’- or whatever they were- and grabbed both their bags when Sherlock happily ignored his on his way out the door. They stepped into the car and Sherlock sighed in frustration.

“Mycroft.”

“Sorry?”

“My brother has been here. I can smell him. I knew you’d had an altercation with someone when you came in, but I assumed it to be the concierge. I suppose that’s what I get for assuming,” Sherlock sighed, “There’s always _something_. Did he offer you money?”

“Yeah, to leave you.”

“So that’s it then?”

“So it’s what, then?”

“You’re leaving once we get to London. You’ve got a pretty penny now, your limp and shaky hand are cured, you’ve got a chance to start your life over again, and I’ll go on as if nothing happened.”

“Is that what you want?”

“What I want is irrelevant where my _family_ are concerned.”

“One problem with that train of thought.”

“That would be?”

“I didn’t take it.”

Sherlock turned in the seat to study John’s face and then smiled softly. “Home?”

“Home,” John nodded.

 


End file.
